The Killing Hour

CHAPTER SIX

Feldman lives in a single-storey townhouse, twenty years old, maybe thirty, fairly similar to the place Landry lives in, really, which makes him feel sick. Not the kind of medicine sick of late, but more of a mental sickness-it’s bad enough he has to breathe the same air as that lunatic let alone have something else in common with him.

Landry parks right out front. He kills the engine and steps out of the car and sucks down a few deep breaths. He needs a cigarette. Badly. His hands are shaking. He decides he needs that cigarette badly enough that he leans back into his car and pops the glove compartment. There’s a brand new box in there. He bought it yesterday when he gave into the temptation, but had done well since then not to crack it open.

He lights one and leans against the car and stares at Feldman’s house. There’s nobody home. He can tell. Houses have a feel about them. He’s never been wrong about it. And this one feels empty. The curtains are closed and there are no lights on. There’s no car in the driveway. The lawns need mowing and the garden is in disrepair, but the house looks like any other on the street, well kept and reasonably tidy. Most killers have pretty average lifestyles. Steady jobs too. Sometimes they’re even living the family life-white picket fence and a four-door sedan. That’s what makes them so scary. They act human and they slot into society and since a young age they’ve known how to hide the crazy; they put it up on a shelf and only bring it out on special occasions. Like last night.

Landry can feel his lungs relaxing. His hands have stopped shaking. He gets a quarter of the way through his cigarette and decides that’s enough. He decides that’s a pretty good compromise considering the doctor wants him to completely give up. He drops the rest of it and uses his foot to stub it into the ground. He walks up to the front door and knocks loudly, but nobody answers. He considers asking the neighbors if they’ve spoken to Feldman, but doesn’t want to risk them alerting Feldman that he’s wanted for questioning. He walks around the house, peering through the windows, but unable to get an angle past any curtains. He pulls out the evidence bag from his pocket, the one with the piece of paper he took from the pad. He stands by the back door and uses his cell phone to dial the number from the pad. It’s a landline number, not a cell. He can hear the phone inside the house ringing. After eight rings the machine picks it up. He listens to Feldman’s voice. Is this the voice of a killer? Is this the voice of a man who can tear women apart? He doesn’t leave a message.

The next step is to go and get a warrant. A judge would give it to him too. Plenty of evidence to suggest Feldman needs talking to, that his house needs going through. At this time of the night the only judge he would be able to find would be a severely pissed-off judge.

No point in pissing off any judges.

No point in chasing Feldman if he’s not their guy.

Best for everybody, really, if Landry just makes his way inside to make sure. No harm, no foul.

He puts on a pair of latex gloves. He reaches into his pocket for a lock-pick set that he’s used in the past when the occasion called for it. He’s never been good at picking locks, and after fifteen minutes he still hasn’t gotten anywhere. He puts the set away and walks back to his car, then returns with a crowbar that he always keeps in the trunk. He wedges it in the door by the lock and gently applies enough pressure until pieces of wood splinter away, and then he’s inside, the air temperature twice as warm as outside.

He doesn’t switch on any lights. He uses a flashlight. He starts in the living room, which is where the back door has led. To his right the kitchen, to his left the lounge and the hallway, which no doubt lead to bedrooms and the front door. There are photographs on the walls, a man and a woman, he assumes the man is Charlie Feldman, his instinct is to assume the woman is somebody Feldman has killed, but of course it’s more likely to be a girlfriend or a wife. Only the house doesn’t have any feminine touches. In fact it looks like a woman hasn’t been through here since the day Feldman moved in. Everything is man-stuff, and it’s something else Landry and Feldman have in common. No pet, no plants, no bright colors. The lounge has a big-screen TV and a game console in the cabinet beneath it. There’s some artwork that looks generic, circles and rectangles mingling with squiggly lines and the occasional wobbly triangle. There’s a couple of B-grade movie posters, aliens looking mean, damsels in distress, and these Landry likes enough to think about taking home with him when this is all over. They remind him of the calendar at the last scene.

One bedroom is empty, another has been turned into a study, the third one is actually a bedroom. He looks through the study. There’s a computer on a desk, and on that desk are more photographs of the same two he saw out in the dining room. Another B-grade movie poster, a calendar with swimsuit models, a filing cabinet. He spends a few minutes learning about Charlie Feldman. He goes through things, he switches on the computer and reads some emails. Feldman is married but separated, probably to the woman that’s in the photographs. A woman by the name of Jo. Jo Feldman-who used to be Jo London, and who is possibly Jo London again. His emails from her go back eight years. That’s when they met. Six months ago he moved out of their house and came here. The emails don’t say why, but they refer to an incident at a bar. He writes down the date. It’s something he might follow up. After Feldman moved out, there were a few emails between him and Jo over the first two weeks, then that became one a month, but the last one was three months ago. There are a few emails from Feldman’s parents. Trivial stuff. Things about gardening, birthdays, outings, the price of food. Some jokes. Emails from friends. From work colleagues. Feldman is a high school teacher. He teaches English at a nearby school. Landry knows the school. Has arrested kids from that school over the years for shoplifting. Feldman has been working there for nearly ten years. He wasn’t dating anybody new. Didn’t have much of a social life. Looked like all he did was work, come home, and hang out with friends in front of his TV playing games. There are some games of golf scheduled in there, some tennis. No mention of Kathy. No mention of Luciana. No mention of his need to kill anybody. Nothing to make Charlie Feldman look guilty of anything.

He switches off the computer and goes through to the bedroom. The bed hasn’t been made. There’s a photograph of the woman on the bedside table. Feldman must still love his wife. In Landry’s experiences, once the wife becomes an ex-wife, there’s not a lot of love there. There are no women’s clothes anywhere. One toothbrush in the bathroom. Nothing to suggest Feldman wasn’t living anything other than alone. In the closet the hangers are mostly empty, others have been shoved to the far sides. It looks like Feldman left somewhere in a hurry.

He goes down to the kitchen and through to the laundry. The washing basket is empty. He opens the washing machine and finds a pair of shorts in there, along with a T-shirt, socks, and underwear. The wash hasn’t been put on. Everything is dry. The shorts are covered in blood. The T-shirt has plenty of blood on it too. He’s dealing with an idiot. At the very least Feldman should have washed these things.

The bloody clothes confirm what the pad suggested-Charlie Feldman was at the crime scenes last night. He drops the shorts and T-shirt back into the machine. He peels his own shirt away from his body, letting some air flow beneath it. He can’t remember ever sweating this much. For a moment he thinks of the dead woman, of the way her body pushed at the sides of the body bag, the way the bag looked too small to fit somebody who was so full of life, somebody with dreams and memories, somebody with a husband, with friends, with a career.

His cell phone rings, the sound breaking his concentration and making him jump. He looks at the display. It’s Schroder.

“How you feeling?” Schroder asks.

“Not the best. Just getting ready to go to bed. What’s happening?”

“A lot’s been happening,” Schroder says. “We’ve spoken to about a hundred people. We’ve got more interviews scheduled for tomorrow. You’re coming in?”

“I’m not sure. I hope so.”

“We could really use you,” Schroder says.

“I know.”

A pause, and then, “Is there anything else going on? You seem a little off.”

“I’m just tired,” he says, staring at the washing machine as he talks. “That’s all. And feeling sick. Something I ate.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“We got a report of a car speeding away around five a.m., from one of the neighbors, but she didn’t see it. Just heard it.”

“Anything else?”

“Not yet. But there’s a lot to look at. I’m confident this time tomorrow we’ll have something to work with. Hope you make it in.”

“I hope so too.”

Back outside Landry lights up a cigarette to help keep the demons at bay. This used to be his favorite time of the day because normally he’d be sipping a beer and watching TV. Now he’s one statistic trying to solve another. In the distance a dog is barking, and a few moments later it is joined by another and another.

He gets his phone back out of his pocket. He calls the station. Ends up chatting to another detective. Detective Inspector Wilson Hutton. Hutton is the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to leave with your wife, not because he’ll try and sleep with her, but because he might try and eat her. He’s at least a hundred pounds overweight, and Landry has often wondered how the guy is managing to keep his job. He gives Hutton the dates he learned from Charlie’s emails.

“There anything reported from around that time?”

“Care to narrow it down?” Hutton asks.

“Something from a bar. A bar fight maybe?”

“Any names?”

“No.”

“Has this got anything to do with the double homicide?”

“Nothing. Just curious about something, that’s all.”

“Give me ten minutes,” he says.

He gets into his car. Feldman is on the run, but he’s sure the guy will come back. Guys like that always do when they figure out they have nowhere else to go. It won’t be tonight. But Landry will find him, and if he doesn’t find him tomorrow, then he’ll come back here every night until he does. He spends ten seconds coughing hard enough for his chest to feel like it’s on fire. He flicks the cigarette-this one half-finished-out the window and is tempted to send the rest of the pack with it, but temptation gives way to sanity and he hangs on to them. For now.

He gets out his notepad. He’d jotted down the details of Feldman’s parents and the wife he’s separated from. He figures it’s too late to ring the parents, but he gives the wife a call. She doesn’t answer. He gets out a map from the glove compartment and looks up her address. It’s less than ten minutes from here. He figures he can swing by her place on the way home. She might have an idea where a guy like Feldman might run.